Just Desserts
by Otoshigo
Summary: In honor of Pi day, or Pie Day, and all things coming around full circle. USUK oneshot crackfic. Alfred loves the Tea Time cafe, even though the coffee is bad and the food is even worse.
Alfred hummed to the tune blasting in his earphones as he headed through the busy New York street. His grin widened as he spotted his favorite cafe in the entire city. He passed under the quaint little wooden sign with the tea cup and the Union Jack, before heading into the nearly empty cafe. He settled into his favorite seat nearby the window, angled just so that he could peer into the back over the lit-glass countertop. He pulled out his law textbook and made some pretense to study.

Now, Tea Time wasn't his favorite cafe because of the food. In fact, he was pretty sure that Tea Time food rating in the negatives on UrbanSpoon. Tea Time was also not his favorite because he liked tea. In fact, he kind of hated tea and the coffee was pretty awful too. Tea Time was also not his favorite because of the ambiance. To be sure, the inside was nice and cozy, complete with a little cat that was probably unhygienic, but kept the more unhygienic rats away. But one kind of had to ignore the bullet holes in the wall and the bars over the glass windows.

In all honesty, he wasn't really sure how the place stayed in business. However, he wasn't about to complain because Tea Time was his favorite cafe for an entirely different reason altogether.

Spotting the familiar mop of choppy blond hair coming out of the back, Alfred's gaze quickly flicked back to his lawbook. He felt the presence approach, correlating with the increased warmth spreading along his shoulders.

"Hullo there, welcome back," a warm, friendly voice with a British accent said next to him.

As casually as he could, Alfred pulled out his earbuds and smiled at the proprietor. It was difficult not to blush under the gaze of those bright green eyes. "Hey there!" he said brightly. "Kind of quiet again, huh?" It was noon. This place should have been packed.

The cafe owner, Arthur, took a look around and saw the sole other patron who was hurriedly sipping his takeaway cup of tea in the corner. He cast the man a suspicious look, but merely shrugged, unbothered by this. "It's alright. I enjoy the quiet. Present company excluded of course," he added with a charming smile that sent a sliver of excitement down to Alfred's toes. "The usual?"

"Please!" Alfred replied, making the pretense of putting his earbuds in again. He didn't turn the music back on though, his senses instead straining to see if he could listen to Arthur speak some more. He rarely did, because he didn't need to. When he did speak, he spoke mostly to his cat, who had taken quite a liking to Alfred himself. Sometimes the cat deposited his presents of dead mice next to Alfred's feet. ...Super cute, really. Sort of.

Arthur placed the mug of coffee and the blueberry muffin on the table. Through process of elimination, Alfred discovered the blueberry muffins were the least horrible thing on the menu. He took an obligatory bite and made the obligatory hum of appreciation, despite the fact that the thing was as dry as sand. However, he did earn himself a sweet smile from Arthur before the cafe owner headed back behind the counter. Then Alfred chased the pastry down with a gulp of thin, weak coffee.

One day. One day, Alfred told himself, he was going to work up the nerve to ask Arthur out onto a date. A date that involved food from somewhere _else_. He was a broke law student after all. It would be nice if he didn't spend his lunch money on bad coffee and bad muffins for once. Then again, he wondered if he was Arthur's sole source of income.

The only other patron suddenly bolted up to his feet, as if to prove Alfred wrong. His hand whipped behind his jacket and yanked something out, pointed towards the counter. Alfred stared at it and only when he heard the soul-hollowing _**BANG-BANG-BANG**_ of gunfire that he realized that it was a pistol. The crash of glass shattering followed along with screaming in the street.

Thankfully, Arthur had not simply frozen in shock like Alfred had and dove down behind the counter. He arose not a second later, using the counter as a shield with a pistol in his own hands. More bangs followed and the gunman dropped to the ground with a small spray of blood.

"Alfred!" Arthur called, hurrying over to the student's side. He was still frozen, shaking like a leaf. "Alfred, you need to leave," he said, grasping Alfred's bicep hard. However, he seemed to change his mind a second later when he looked out of the barred windows. "No, never mind, come with me."

Without further ado, he yanked the unresistant student into the back of the shop. Alfred was only distantly aware of the sound of screeching brakes out in the street. They passed the kitchen and then Arthur summarily shoved Alfred into a cool storage room, tossing the cat in after him. "Stay here," he barked in order. "Don't come out, whatever you do." Arthur grabbed something long behind one of the shelves, before locking Alfred in.

Gripping the poor cat hard, it was all that Alfred could do not to start hyperventilating. He thoughts screamed with shock and denial, even as his mind processed the fact that Arthur had pulled a rifle out of the small cache of weapons that he was currently sharing the room with. Then he didn't think anything at all, as more gunfire followed. It made the very air vibrate as though he was sitting inside a drum.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was really only about ten minutes, the gunfire subsided. He still stayed stock still for many minutes afterwards, his hands still grappling a panicked cat in a death grip. Finally, he heard dull footsteps coming towards the storage room. A squeak escaped him, when the door cracked open.

Arthur stood there, silhouetted in the flourescent kitchen lights like a bloody specter, smoking rifle in hand. It wasn't a lot of blood, but it was conspicuously sprayed over his white shirt and his pale face. "Are you alright?" he asked, panting softly as he reached out a hand.

Alfred flinched away from it.

The cafe owner looked pained, slowly pulling his hand back. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "This wasn't exactly how I wanted you to find out."

"F-find out what?" Alfred demanded, his voice shrill.

"I'm part of the mafia. Well, one of them," Arthur explained, looking sheepish. His manner didn't fit his words. It was as if he were admitting that he liked making tea cozies for a hobby. He idly wiped the blood from his cheek with his sleeve. "I was planning on telling you eventually. Perhaps after a few dates. I wanted so badly to ask you out, but I felt terribly guilty bringing you into all this considering my occupation. I still do, but I think it might be best if you had some time to settle down. Um, perhaps you could give me a call later? Here's my cell phone number." He pressed a number into Alfred's hand and slowly unlocked Alfred's vice-like grip around his cat. The disgruntled kitty plopped down to the floor and dashed out of the open doorway through Arthur's slender legs.

"Cell, right," Alfred squeaked, gripping the slip of paper with sweaty fingers. The cafe owner/mafia man handed him his bag which had little chips of glass dusting it. Then he gently guided Alfred out the back of the shop and into an alleyway. "You'd best get going," Arthur told him. "I can hear the fuzz coming."

Alfred didn't know what fuzz meant, but he heard the sirens and nodded weakly. Still shaking like a junkie - not a single New Yorker paid him any attention - he headed towards the subway and back home to his apartment.

The number he dumped into the nearest trash can and never looked back.

 _ **Five Years Later...**_

At too early in the morning o'clock, Alfred Jones, new associate of the Burke and Hoover Law Firm in Washington DC, cast a gloomy look over the piles of messy paperwork over his cubicle desk. His life as an associate was much like many others, overworked, fatigued and slightly on the functioning alcoholic side. Sighing, he sat down and went to the one marked top priority in his inbox. He just needed to do some discovery on the Hatchell case, write up some subpoenas for the Martells, then probably skip lunch to handle the Davis depositions, then do legal research on the Edwards case and then the all-hands meeting at four and so on and so on.

It was what he signed up for though. Although thoughts of signing up in some nice little neighborhood law firm in Boise sounded much more appealing.

Not even half an hour into his research though, he got a call from his boss. "Jones, I need you to help with another case," he said and Alfred didn't dare complain that this was the fifteenth case he was working on. "Our client will be coming in in five minutes. Drop what you're doing and come to my office."

"Yessir," Alfred replied. Then he put the phone down and heaved a great sigh. He pulled on his jacket and headed to Boss Man's office with notebook in hand. "Hey Charlotte," he greeted the secretary, before he let himself through.

The client had already arrived, speaking with Boss Man Abram in front of his desk. Alfred frowned at his back. There was something oddly familiar about that choppy blond hair. When the man spoke, there was something even _more_ familiar about his voice and his accent.

Boss Man looked up from their client. "Ah Jones, good. Come here and take notes. This is Mr. Kirkland, our new client."

The client turned, revealing a face that Alfred hadn't seen in five years, though he saw it frequently enough in his nightmares. Arthur looked much the same, except he was wearing a sleek dark gray suit and expensive leather shoes instead of the simple cafe owner's shirt and trousers Alfred last saw him in. Recognition flickered in those green eyes, as the mafia man smiled. "Alfred," he said softly, holding out his hand, "it's a pleasure to see you again."

Alfred looked at the hand. Then without a word, he promptly spun around and left.

 _ **Six Years Later...**_

Alfred relaxed in his favorite diner in the burbs of Minnetonka, enjoying a piece of cherry pie and a cup of coffee. It was his favorite treat after winning a case. Not that he did too badly in his own small, but cozy neighborhood office. (Making his bones in New York and DC respectively also made sure he had the legal mind to back him up.) Being self-employed wasn't all that bad actually, even if it was pretty much all he could do after he quit rather abruptly from his old DC office. This speed suited him much better, taking low stake, small time cases and actually feeling like he could make a difference.

Yep, absolutely nothing wrong with small town life, he thought as he pushed the pie plate away from him.

"More coffee?" he heard a voice both unfamiliar and _horribly, horrendously_ familiar say over his shoulder.

Freezing, Alfred slowly turned and looked up as the color drained from his face. Arthur Kirkland similarly froze up, blinking in astonishment back down at him. He looked tired, a bit worn, but eerily so much like himself from eleven years ago in his shirt, trousers and apron. "You!" Alfred cried in horror, nearly falling off his chair in the process.

"Al?" Jim, the owner, said as he came over to investigate. "You alright, man?" He glanced over at Arthur. "I see you just met Oliver. He's new here."

" _Oliver?_ " Alfred spluttered.

Arthur coughed delicately. "Yes, er- _Al._ I just moved into town recently. It's nice to meet you. Excuse me, I need to go to another table." With that he abruptly left, attending to the coffee needs of some other patrons.

"You know that guy?" Jim questioned warily as they both watched him.

Alfred didn't answer. Instead, he asked, "When does he get off work?"

At eleven o'clock that night, Alfred was waiting in the nearly empty parking lot as the diner shut down. Hands in his pockets as he sat against the hood of his car, he watched as the employees dispersed into the night. Including one certain choppy blond haired individual.

Arthur spotted him almost immediately. He wavered a bit, but then resignedly came over to where Alfred was undoubtedly waiting for _him_. "Can I help you?" he asked, dead tired from his shift.

"Yeah," Alfred said as he straightened. "What the hell are you doing in my town? Are you _following_ me?"

"I had no such intention," Arthur replied, his voice and his accent as lovely as ever. Though the rest of him seemed older and world-weary. "I was put here under witness protection. I've had to move twice already and I rather like it here. So I would much appreciate it if you did not let anyone know about my past life."

"Oh," Alfred said. That made sense actually. Now he kind of felt like an ass for freaking out. "Er, yeah, alright... Ollie. I guess it's good you're turning over a new leaf."

"Please _don't_ call me that," Arthur said, though his lips quirked into a faint smile. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you didn't get caught up in all of... _that_." That seemed to be as much as he wanted to say on the matter. He shifted awkwardly, still not quite able to meet Alfred's eye. "In any case, I ought to be heading home. Good night."

Alfred watched him silently. The Brit made it about halfway to his car, before he suddenly called out. "Hey, wait!" Startled, Arthur turned to see Alfred jog up to him. "We should ah, catch up, maybe?" the lawyer suggested, handing Arthur a slip of paper. A business card with his phone number. "Over blueberry muffins?"

Arthur looked at the card incredulously. "How do you know I'm not going to dump this into the nearest bin?" he asked as Alfred headed back to his car.

"Y'know," Alfred mused as he looked over his shoulder, "I'm pretty sure we'll bump into each other again no matter what we do." Grinning, he gave Arthur a wave, then turned away into the night.


End file.
